Happy Halloween from your malevolent hostess and Evil (Slutty) Kitty.
xoxo
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
tedium
Can I just say, I have had the most boring day at work today. Half my patients cancelled or dnk'd and the half that came were...boring. I mean, not personally. They just were very routine and presented no challenge.
Also, the ATM in the lobby has been out of order for two days now, which is seriously pissing me off, since I want to get cash but I do not want to stop at the bank on the way home. (Maybe I should call my Eastern Bank customer service lady who keeps leaving me those nice messages and ask her to run a few twenties by my house! Customer service, my ass.) I think that's all the complaining I have to do. For the moment. No guarantees.
Oh, wait. I was also looking at winter puffer jackets online while I was being dnk'd, because I figure if I give my off-white one with the jammed pocket zippers and the not-totally-well-distributed-anymore down that I got in 2003 to the coat drive next week, I ought to have a replacement lined up. Down jacket weather is coming sooner than we would like to think, boys and girls. So last winter--that long long winter of falling on the ice and wearing sweatpants for weeks on end? that one--every time I was freezing my ass (literally) off waiting for the MBTA, I told myself that when I replaced that off-white jacket, I was going to buy a longer 3/4 length one that covered my crotch, my butt, my upper thighs. But my online shopping today was sadly disappointing. I do not want to look like the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man and I do not want to pay $250 (though if theoretically we were to divide that by six years, it's dirt cheap). So now I'm like, well, maybe you shouldn't give that jacket to the coat drive, Andrea, because what if you do and then you can't find anything you like to replace it? You'll be stuck trudging to work at 6:30 in the morning in January in a wool dress coat and risking frostbite, that's what. It's a sad dilemma.
See what I did there? I just shared my boredom. Spread it around, as it were. You're welcome.
First person who mentions LL Bean in the comments gets a punch in the arm the next time I see you. Consider this your warning.
xoxo
Also, the ATM in the lobby has been out of order for two days now, which is seriously pissing me off, since I want to get cash but I do not want to stop at the bank on the way home. (Maybe I should call my Eastern Bank customer service lady who keeps leaving me those nice messages and ask her to run a few twenties by my house! Customer service, my ass.) I think that's all the complaining I have to do. For the moment. No guarantees.
Oh, wait. I was also looking at winter puffer jackets online while I was being dnk'd, because I figure if I give my off-white one with the jammed pocket zippers and the not-totally-well-distributed-anymore down that I got in 2003 to the coat drive next week, I ought to have a replacement lined up. Down jacket weather is coming sooner than we would like to think, boys and girls. So last winter--that long long winter of falling on the ice and wearing sweatpants for weeks on end? that one--every time I was freezing my ass (literally) off waiting for the MBTA, I told myself that when I replaced that off-white jacket, I was going to buy a longer 3/4 length one that covered my crotch, my butt, my upper thighs. But my online shopping today was sadly disappointing. I do not want to look like the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man and I do not want to pay $250 (though if theoretically we were to divide that by six years, it's dirt cheap). So now I'm like, well, maybe you shouldn't give that jacket to the coat drive, Andrea, because what if you do and then you can't find anything you like to replace it? You'll be stuck trudging to work at 6:30 in the morning in January in a wool dress coat and risking frostbite, that's what. It's a sad dilemma.
See what I did there? I just shared my boredom. Spread it around, as it were. You're welcome.
First person who mentions LL Bean in the comments gets a punch in the arm the next time I see you. Consider this your warning.
xoxo
Thursday, October 29, 2009
can you stand more?????
Let me set you the scene. Everyday when I get home from work, no matter what time, my dad is in his recliner in his bedroom, watching TV. Oh, rarely he might be in the kitchen or bathroom, but generally, he's in his chair in the afternoon.
Today, I get home at exactly 5 pm and the hallway (off the "foyer") light is on for no apparent reason. I go into my dad's room off the hallway and he is not there. I go around the corner into the kitchen and he is not there. I backtrack down the hallway where the light was left on and open the door to the garage. The garage light is on but no one is out there. I am beginning to think "WTF?" And getting...concerned. Is this the day my dad has a TIA and goes out wandering around the neighborhood in confusion? Is this the day someone really did sneak up on him and kill him in his chair (like I'm always predicting is gonna happen because he never hears me come in until I'm standing over him)?
Because it's exactly 5 pm and D takes pills at 5, even though D is downstairs in the living room, I wonder if my dad didn't realize he was there and went upstairs to remind him of the time. I run upstairs. No one is up there. I run down and practically scream at D, "Where's Grampa??????" D has no idea. As far as he knows, he's in his room. My heart is pounding. I go to the door to the back porch, and it is locked from the inside. I open it anyway.
Oh, yeah, there's my dad on the porch stairs, blithely sweeping leaves off with a broom. "DON'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN! Tell D if you're going outside! And why are you outside sweeping at 5 pm anyhow?"
"I dunno. I looked out and there were a lot of leaves there."
So, anyway, he thinks the fact that he scared me to death is hilarious, but he agrees he should tell somebody if he's going out in the yard. (And you do realize this is probably revenge for my Catholic church harassment.)
Who goes out the garage door, closes it, and walks around to the back porch anyhow? I'm not completely ruling out the TIA, yo.
xoxo
Today, I get home at exactly 5 pm and the hallway (off the "foyer") light is on for no apparent reason. I go into my dad's room off the hallway and he is not there. I go around the corner into the kitchen and he is not there. I backtrack down the hallway where the light was left on and open the door to the garage. The garage light is on but no one is out there. I am beginning to think "WTF?" And getting...concerned. Is this the day my dad has a TIA and goes out wandering around the neighborhood in confusion? Is this the day someone really did sneak up on him and kill him in his chair (like I'm always predicting is gonna happen because he never hears me come in until I'm standing over him)?
Because it's exactly 5 pm and D takes pills at 5, even though D is downstairs in the living room, I wonder if my dad didn't realize he was there and went upstairs to remind him of the time. I run upstairs. No one is up there. I run down and practically scream at D, "Where's Grampa??????" D has no idea. As far as he knows, he's in his room. My heart is pounding. I go to the door to the back porch, and it is locked from the inside. I open it anyway.
Oh, yeah, there's my dad on the porch stairs, blithely sweeping leaves off with a broom. "DON'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN! Tell D if you're going outside! And why are you outside sweeping at 5 pm anyhow?"
"I dunno. I looked out and there were a lot of leaves there."
So, anyway, he thinks the fact that he scared me to death is hilarious, but he agrees he should tell somebody if he's going out in the yard. (And you do realize this is probably revenge for my Catholic church harassment.)
Who goes out the garage door, closes it, and walks around to the back porch anyhow? I'm not completely ruling out the TIA, yo.
xoxo
bureaucracy and the crazee
So, yesterday I did two extremely stressful (for me) things. The outcome of one is as yet uncertain and not to be talked about in here, but the second? I mailed my MA state (massage) licensure renewal. Why is that so stressful? (Besides writing out the ridiculously large check, that is?) It's stressful because I am crazee.
I even waited until after lunch with M2 to do this, because I wanted to go over it with her, assuming her renewal had already come up. Unfortunately, I forgot to stick the form in my purse. You may judge me. The whole thing was fraught with uncertainty for me, because in the many-paragraphs long letter that came with the renewal form, one of the things that it said was not to send in your renewal if you didn't have liability insurance. However there were no instructions indicating they wanted to see any proof of that insurance. I read and reread and examined the part you mail back, and as far as I could tell, they weren't asking anywhere for a copy of your insurance certificate. So I confirmed this with M2, who couldn't quite remember, but thought all they wanted was your signature affirming that you aren't cheating on your taxes, you aren't working at an unlicensed facility, and you don't have criminal convictions you haven't reported to the board. And, of course, your big fat check.
So that's all I mailed them. And I'm thinking, okay, I have a whole month till it's actually due, which is plenty of time, if I've made a mistake, for them to mail me back and say so and have me correct it without even incurring a late renewal fee. This should be totally nothing I spend any time fretting about, right? But of course the answer is I am terrified of the bureaucracy.
Any time I have to deal with any governmental agency, I am irrationally scared that any honest mistake I make will be penalized in such a way that it will ruin my life forever. (See why doing my taxes is so fun?) I have no idea where this fear came from and I have no idea how to fix it. Exposure therapy (or whatever it's called) certainly hasn't helped, because no matter how many forms I've filled out in my life, the anxiety that I'll screw up somehow and face horrible consequences remains. It's probably grown worse over time, actually. I'm trying my own little version of CBT, trying to logically think through what's the worst that could happen (i.e. they send my renewal back asking for the proof of insurance and if it's after November 28, I pay the late fee--that's the *worst* that can happen) but it didn't make sealing that envelope and sticking it in the mailbox any easier.
Once again, I recommend that those of you with normal brains hug your parents or send them a thank you card or some such shit, thanking them for the good genetics, because having an abnormal one really isn't that much fun.
xoxo
I even waited until after lunch with M2 to do this, because I wanted to go over it with her, assuming her renewal had already come up. Unfortunately, I forgot to stick the form in my purse. You may judge me. The whole thing was fraught with uncertainty for me, because in the many-paragraphs long letter that came with the renewal form, one of the things that it said was not to send in your renewal if you didn't have liability insurance. However there were no instructions indicating they wanted to see any proof of that insurance. I read and reread and examined the part you mail back, and as far as I could tell, they weren't asking anywhere for a copy of your insurance certificate. So I confirmed this with M2, who couldn't quite remember, but thought all they wanted was your signature affirming that you aren't cheating on your taxes, you aren't working at an unlicensed facility, and you don't have criminal convictions you haven't reported to the board. And, of course, your big fat check.
So that's all I mailed them. And I'm thinking, okay, I have a whole month till it's actually due, which is plenty of time, if I've made a mistake, for them to mail me back and say so and have me correct it without even incurring a late renewal fee. This should be totally nothing I spend any time fretting about, right? But of course the answer is I am terrified of the bureaucracy.
Any time I have to deal with any governmental agency, I am irrationally scared that any honest mistake I make will be penalized in such a way that it will ruin my life forever. (See why doing my taxes is so fun?) I have no idea where this fear came from and I have no idea how to fix it. Exposure therapy (or whatever it's called) certainly hasn't helped, because no matter how many forms I've filled out in my life, the anxiety that I'll screw up somehow and face horrible consequences remains. It's probably grown worse over time, actually. I'm trying my own little version of CBT, trying to logically think through what's the worst that could happen (i.e. they send my renewal back asking for the proof of insurance and if it's after November 28, I pay the late fee--that's the *worst* that can happen) but it didn't make sealing that envelope and sticking it in the mailbox any easier.
Once again, I recommend that those of you with normal brains hug your parents or send them a thank you card or some such shit, thanking them for the good genetics, because having an abnormal one really isn't that much fun.
xoxo
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
questions
...for those of you who have your shit together, and even those of you who don't. (Who the hell am I to discriminate?) I would love a wide variety of responses. Please chime in.
1.) How long do you keep your bank statements? How about your 401k statements and the like?
2.) How long do you keep (or *do* you keep) your receipts/stubs from paid bills?
3.) Do you keep the "do not pay this" statements you get from companies whom you pay by automatic checking account debit?
4.) Tax stuff. Seriously, can you throw out 1999 and before?
5.) Do you keep coupons? Do you then ever use those coupons before they expire?
6.) Do you ever keep things like credit card offers, offers for super-discounted magazine subscriptions, invitations to continuing ed courses, or solicitations for charity, etc etc because you want to think about them? Or does it all go straight into the recycling except for the stuff you know *immediately* on first look that you do want?
Obviously, I am thinking I need to use my shredder more and my fabulous shoebox filing system less, but I need guidance about how to do that reasonably and reassurance that no one will ever ask me to produce my Sprint bill from March 2006 or the like.
Gracias.
xoxo
1.) How long do you keep your bank statements? How about your 401k statements and the like?
2.) How long do you keep (or *do* you keep) your receipts/stubs from paid bills?
3.) Do you keep the "do not pay this" statements you get from companies whom you pay by automatic checking account debit?
4.) Tax stuff. Seriously, can you throw out 1999 and before?
5.) Do you keep coupons? Do you then ever use those coupons before they expire?
6.) Do you ever keep things like credit card offers, offers for super-discounted magazine subscriptions, invitations to continuing ed courses, or solicitations for charity, etc etc because you want to think about them? Or does it all go straight into the recycling except for the stuff you know *immediately* on first look that you do want?
Obviously, I am thinking I need to use my shredder more and my fabulous shoebox filing system less, but I need guidance about how to do that reasonably and reassurance that no one will ever ask me to produce my Sprint bill from March 2006 or the like.
Gracias.
xoxo
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
and for my own purposes...don't read
I just made up some new folders. Now I'm going to write right here in my very own blog what I did with them, just in case.
My AMTA stuff in upstairs in my bedroom, under my CEUs folder. (All my massage related stuff is in the "office portion" of my bedroom.) My new insurance stuff file is in the china cabinet drawer in the dining room, on top of the file with the receipts for work on the house done in 2009, and my tax stuff from last year. (Stuff I really don't want to lose tends to go in a drawer in the china cabinet.) On the kitchen table, which is where stuff tends to accumulate, I have two new files: one for bills that need to be paid, and one for other mail I want to read at my leisure.
I can get all this shit organized. I know I can.
xoxo
My AMTA stuff in upstairs in my bedroom, under my CEUs folder. (All my massage related stuff is in the "office portion" of my bedroom.) My new insurance stuff file is in the china cabinet drawer in the dining room, on top of the file with the receipts for work on the house done in 2009, and my tax stuff from last year. (Stuff I really don't want to lose tends to go in a drawer in the china cabinet.) On the kitchen table, which is where stuff tends to accumulate, I have two new files: one for bills that need to be paid, and one for other mail I want to read at my leisure.
I can get all this shit organized. I know I can.
xoxo
more c'mon now
According to the news, the Archdiocese of Boston is gonna protect all the faithful from the flu. Or at least from catching the flu while on, y'know, Church property.
The holy water fonts are going to be drained, disinfected, and refilled with fresh holy water. The sign of peace will be observed with a polite head bob/bow, no clasping hands or hugging. And when passing out communion, priests are to be extra careful not to accidentally touch the parishioners' faces or hands.
Of course I had to purposely annoy my father about this. "Wait. Isn't the baby Jesus supposed to protect you from germs in the holy water? It's *holy* water." Well, supposedly it is. This is why I personally don't go to church anymore. If they can't guarantee me that my attendance will get the baby Jesus on my side enough to protect me from a few microbes, I don't see the point. Weakass religion. In the old days, sacrificing a sheep to Zeus practically came with a money-back guarantee.
xoxo
The holy water fonts are going to be drained, disinfected, and refilled with fresh holy water. The sign of peace will be observed with a polite head bob/bow, no clasping hands or hugging. And when passing out communion, priests are to be extra careful not to accidentally touch the parishioners' faces or hands.
Of course I had to purposely annoy my father about this. "Wait. Isn't the baby Jesus supposed to protect you from germs in the holy water? It's *holy* water." Well, supposedly it is. This is why I personally don't go to church anymore. If they can't guarantee me that my attendance will get the baby Jesus on my side enough to protect me from a few microbes, I don't see the point. Weakass religion. In the old days, sacrificing a sheep to Zeus practically came with a money-back guarantee.
xoxo
purchased tatas
Have you guys seen Amy Winehouse's new boobs? If you haven't, and you want to, go over to gofugyourself, and check her out. She's being fugged for appearing out and about in a bustier which is a.) too small for her new breastses and b.) askew, so that 3/4 of her left nipple is clearly saying hi to everybody. (Amy Winehouse out for an evening with her garments askew? There's a shocker.)
But my problem with the picture is not Amy's unfortunate ensemble. It's her surgeon. Her new giant gazongas are so out of proportion to that woman's teeny tiny skinny small-boned little frame, they look absolutely wrong. They might look just peachy on someone who had thirty pounds on Ms Winehouse, but not her. She looks like she needs to have two houseboys, trailing along side of her, holding each one up lovingly so as to save her poor erector spinae muscles, not to mention her traps. Doesn't it fall to the plastic surgeon, as the professional, to say gently, "I'm sorry, Ms Winehouse, but a 90 pound woman cannot reasonably have DDD knockers."
I mean, c'mon now. I'm sure he was skeered of her (I know I would be), and I'm sure she had lots of money to buy her shiny new tits, but what ever happened to "first do no harm"? Or, y'know, aesthetic judgment. Shouldn't you have to pass a test of aesthetic judgment to become a plastic surgeon? When I rule the world...
xoxo
But my problem with the picture is not Amy's unfortunate ensemble. It's her surgeon. Her new giant gazongas are so out of proportion to that woman's teeny tiny skinny small-boned little frame, they look absolutely wrong. They might look just peachy on someone who had thirty pounds on Ms Winehouse, but not her. She looks like she needs to have two houseboys, trailing along side of her, holding each one up lovingly so as to save her poor erector spinae muscles, not to mention her traps. Doesn't it fall to the plastic surgeon, as the professional, to say gently, "I'm sorry, Ms Winehouse, but a 90 pound woman cannot reasonably have DDD knockers."
I mean, c'mon now. I'm sure he was skeered of her (I know I would be), and I'm sure she had lots of money to buy her shiny new tits, but what ever happened to "first do no harm"? Or, y'know, aesthetic judgment. Shouldn't you have to pass a test of aesthetic judgment to become a plastic surgeon? When I rule the world...
xoxo
Monday, October 26, 2009
and in other news
D saw the cute but fairly stupid little Indian psychiatrist this morning and she informed him he was being transferred to some new nurse practitioner there who is to be in charge of all the clozaril patients. Including doing the paperwork thereof. I am of mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, if this new woman isn't incompetent, maybe all the blood work/pharmacy hooha will be simplified, and I will at least know exactly whom to call if it isn't done right and in a timely fashion. Dr M was very clear that this woman would be in charge of every facet of the clozaril program, so there is that "the buck stops here" thing. On the other hand, after over a year and a half of it being screwed up more often than not, I have over the past year+ gotten the system under control that, with a little work and responsibility (that shouldn't be mine, but whatev) on my part, it isn't getting screwed up anymore, ever. So this change makes me anxious. But what doesn't? Also, I'm kinda interested in why, the clozaril patients being, ostensibly, the sickest, they're all going to be transferred to a nurse practitioner, not an MD. Not that, like I said, Dr M seems to be the sharpest tack in the junk drawer. Someone's gotta be towards the bottom of their med school class, right? So maybe it doesn't matter.
We'll see what happens. But be prepared for future bitching in here. You've been warned.
xoxo
We'll see what happens. But be prepared for future bitching in here. You've been warned.
xoxo
quick follow up!
My folder full of proof about those thieving bastards *was* in my desk at work, so I am free to contact the feds. I'ma leave it right where it is, so I know it's there. Just in case I am called on to produce evidence. Ha!
It reassures me that my memory isn't totally shot and I remembered sending my taxes from my work computer. Of all my problems, early-onset Alzheimers is not apparently one. Yet.
xoxo
It reassures me that my memory isn't totally shot and I remembered sending my taxes from my work computer. Of all my problems, early-onset Alzheimers is not apparently one. Yet.
xoxo
Sunday, October 25, 2009
evidence
Proof I haven't been bullshitting you. I've been working my ass off!
Two boxes of miscellaneous stuff for donation to the Epilepsy Foundation on Wednesday:
Many boxes of books being picked up on Friday:
And now for the infamous cat box office. I wish I'd had the balls to take a before picture. It was truly horrifying.
Anyway, looking in from the doorway. This is an L-shaped little room. Note the broken vacuum cleaner next to the ironing board. That's one of the things I need the gotjunk guys for.
My very first ever computer desk and chair. My ex-husband gave it to me when I bought my first PC in 1994, at a time when he wasn't being a complete and total dickhead. Notice the cardboard recycling stacked on top, all ready to go. (Don't be too impressed though. There are plenty of more boxes stashed away that I haven't dealt with yet.) And, yes, that *is* an iron-shaped burn on my ironing board cover!
Where the magic happens:
The bottom of my bookshelves in there. It's actually the incredibly cheap particle board "entertainment center" my ex and I bought when D was born. (But it's lasted over 20 years, yo.) Also note my encyclopedias, the only thing I have ever in my life bought due to telephone solicitation. (I was on maternity leave. I was getting about 4 hours sleep a night in hour and a half stretches. I was so sleep-deprived I would have fucking agreed to anything. Srsly.)
Top of the bookshelves. Note the broken printer serving as a decorative object. I might try to sneak it out in the midst of my trash at some point.
That is all!
Two boxes of miscellaneous stuff for donation to the Epilepsy Foundation on Wednesday:
Many boxes of books being picked up on Friday:
And now for the infamous cat box office. I wish I'd had the balls to take a before picture. It was truly horrifying.
Anyway, looking in from the doorway. This is an L-shaped little room. Note the broken vacuum cleaner next to the ironing board. That's one of the things I need the gotjunk guys for.
My very first ever computer desk and chair. My ex-husband gave it to me when I bought my first PC in 1994, at a time when he wasn't being a complete and total dickhead. Notice the cardboard recycling stacked on top, all ready to go. (Don't be too impressed though. There are plenty of more boxes stashed away that I haven't dealt with yet.) And, yes, that *is* an iron-shaped burn on my ironing board cover!
Where the magic happens:
The bottom of my bookshelves in there. It's actually the incredibly cheap particle board "entertainment center" my ex and I bought when D was born. (But it's lasted over 20 years, yo.) Also note my encyclopedias, the only thing I have ever in my life bought due to telephone solicitation. (I was on maternity leave. I was getting about 4 hours sleep a night in hour and a half stretches. I was so sleep-deprived I would have fucking agreed to anything. Srsly.)
Top of the bookshelves. Note the broken printer serving as a decorative object. I might try to sneak it out in the midst of my trash at some point.
That is all!
xoxo
in which i use the word "really" many times
1.) Consumer complaint #437: It is really, really hard to find string for sale. I need it to tie up my (mandatory!) cardboard recycling and the last time I ran out, I remember looking through every single aisle of a big CVS and a Target without success. Now that I'm getting close to needing more, I can't remember what store I finally found it at. Probably the evil WalMart, and my PTSD from going in there is what's preventing me from remembering.
2.) Praise for Mother Nature: The foliage is really, really, really beautiful this year. I just went for a walk around the neighborhood, doing a few little errands, and the trees by the pond and, really, all the streets around here are stunning. Of course, I hasten to add, I have no idea if this is holding true everywhere because, sadly, around my neighborhood is the only place I've looked at foliage.
(You know how when you break up with someone--not the kind of breakup that involves restraining orders or lawyers, rather the kinder and friendlier kind of breakup--and you know it's for the best that you parted, but you still look back at parts of the relationship with nostalgia and fondness? Well, every October that we were in any way "together", my ex-whatever-he-was-to-me and I would take a weekend when we both could get free and we thought the foliage would be good and go hiking somewhere pretty. Then one of the nights we'd do something Halloween-related, like go to the late, lamented Spookyworld, because, y'know, favorite holiday. Some years the color would suck, some it would be gorgeous. Some years we'd miscalculate near-peak. And in one extremely memorable year, it rained torrentially the whole weekend and the only motel we could get was a pit. I have especially fond memories of that weekend, heh. But those October trips were pretty much all some of the best times I've had in my life. Always so much fun. In any case, my little walk around today made me think about that. A day *just* like today out in the Quabbin would be fabulous, no?)
3.) Evil Kitty update: She has not yet (to my knowledge, but god knows I could always be surprised) pooped or peed anywhere she's not supposed to since I've been cleaning "her" room. I have not yet completely washed everything down in there with the aromatherapy cleaner, but I've done enough that I think if she was going to be put off by it, I'd know by now. I think.
xoxo
2.) Praise for Mother Nature: The foliage is really, really, really beautiful this year. I just went for a walk around the neighborhood, doing a few little errands, and the trees by the pond and, really, all the streets around here are stunning. Of course, I hasten to add, I have no idea if this is holding true everywhere because, sadly, around my neighborhood is the only place I've looked at foliage.
(You know how when you break up with someone--not the kind of breakup that involves restraining orders or lawyers, rather the kinder and friendlier kind of breakup--and you know it's for the best that you parted, but you still look back at parts of the relationship with nostalgia and fondness? Well, every October that we were in any way "together", my ex-whatever-he-was-to-me and I would take a weekend when we both could get free and we thought the foliage would be good and go hiking somewhere pretty. Then one of the nights we'd do something Halloween-related, like go to the late, lamented Spookyworld, because, y'know, favorite holiday. Some years the color would suck, some it would be gorgeous. Some years we'd miscalculate near-peak. And in one extremely memorable year, it rained torrentially the whole weekend and the only motel we could get was a pit. I have especially fond memories of that weekend, heh. But those October trips were pretty much all some of the best times I've had in my life. Always so much fun. In any case, my little walk around today made me think about that. A day *just* like today out in the Quabbin would be fabulous, no?)
3.) Evil Kitty update: She has not yet (to my knowledge, but god knows I could always be surprised) pooped or peed anywhere she's not supposed to since I've been cleaning "her" room. I have not yet completely washed everything down in there with the aromatherapy cleaner, but I've done enough that I think if she was going to be put off by it, I'd know by now. I think.
xoxo
Saturday, October 24, 2009
and in not-so-weirdness
Here's part of an email I received this morning from someone who was also an employee of the Evil Massage Place (I think he was one of the chiropractors, but I didn't know him):
I am e-mailing everyone to let you know that the Keith, Michelle met with the U.S Department of Labor this past Thursday. Two investigators came down to our office last week and we agreed to set up a meeting with them. They are currently actively investigating [deleted] and our former employers [deleted] and [deleted] for criminal charges.
Specifically, they are focusing on [deleted] 401K plans (for those of you who opted in) but are also interested in other violations (ie - non-payment of wages, benefits, health etc..).
They have kindly asked us to reach out to all former [deleted] employees to see if anyone would like to speak with them or provide them with any additional information that may help them with their investigation.
Okay, I wasn't in their 401k, but it pissed me off no end that not only did they owe me wages, but that after hiring me as an employee and paying me as an employee (taking out taxes and SS), they sent me a 1099 form for 2007, as if I was an independent contractor, instead of the W2 I should have gotten. (i.e. They stole our tax and social security payments.) So, yeah, I would kinda like to see these thieving bastards go to jail.
Should I email the investigators? I'm thinking I should.
xo
I am e-mailing everyone to let you know that the Keith, Michelle met with the U.S Department of Labor this past Thursday. Two investigators came down to our office last week and we agreed to set up a meeting with them. They are currently actively investigating [deleted] and our former employers [deleted] and [deleted] for criminal charges.
Specifically, they are focusing on [deleted] 401K plans (for those of you who opted in) but are also interested in other violations (ie - non-payment of wages, benefits, health etc..).
They have kindly asked us to reach out to all former [deleted] employees to see if anyone would like to speak with them or provide them with any additional information that may help them with their investigation.
Okay, I wasn't in their 401k, but it pissed me off no end that not only did they owe me wages, but that after hiring me as an employee and paying me as an employee (taking out taxes and SS), they sent me a 1099 form for 2007, as if I was an independent contractor, instead of the W2 I should have gotten. (i.e. They stole our tax and social security payments.) So, yeah, I would kinda like to see these thieving bastards go to jail.
Should I email the investigators? I'm thinking I should.
xo
from the weirdness files
1.) Did you guys hear about the big bathrobe recall? Apparently some robe, made in Pakistan and sold through a catalogue company, is responsible for a number of women in their 70s and 80s setting themselves on fire while cooking. Am I a very bad person for finding something vaguely hilarious about that? It's not that I'm making light of anyone's horrible cooking injury. It's just the specificity of the danger that seems absurd. You know how children's sleepwear is made flame-retardant? Well, someone is missing out on a whole new target market here. Flame-proof loungewear for the elderly! So Gramma can put on the tea kettle in the morning without bursting into flames!
2.) Okay, you probably are tired of me telling you about what stoopid things other people say on the internet, but I feel it is my duty to report, so's you don't have to read all these posts and blogs and comments yourselves. And yet you will *still* be informed about the strangeness and idiocy of the American public. (Um, in case you don't actually have to deal with the American public in real life, that is.) It's another blog service! Today's writing comes from a thread on "financial recovery" in which people with debt and general money problems are meant to support each other. Seems this gentleman paid $50 of his internet bill online (a fraction of the total bill--he didn't have enough money in his checking account to pay it all at once) then cancelled the payment in lieu of buying a new down comforter for $50 because it was such a good deal. Um, excuse me? You can't even pay all your bills and yet you're buying things because you want them and they're cheap? I kinda don't think this is "financial recovery" but I'm sure all his supportive internet pals will give him big cyber hugs anyway. What's the gentleman's plan for paying his internet bill and cell phone? He's praying to god for new customers for his side business. Oh, that ought to work just as well as The Secret. (Plus, isn't there something about god helping those who help themselves? I think there is!)
xoxo
2.) Okay, you probably are tired of me telling you about what stoopid things other people say on the internet, but I feel it is my duty to report, so's you don't have to read all these posts and blogs and comments yourselves. And yet you will *still* be informed about the strangeness and idiocy of the American public. (Um, in case you don't actually have to deal with the American public in real life, that is.) It's another blog service! Today's writing comes from a thread on "financial recovery" in which people with debt and general money problems are meant to support each other. Seems this gentleman paid $50 of his internet bill online (a fraction of the total bill--he didn't have enough money in his checking account to pay it all at once) then cancelled the payment in lieu of buying a new down comforter for $50 because it was such a good deal. Um, excuse me? You can't even pay all your bills and yet you're buying things because you want them and they're cheap? I kinda don't think this is "financial recovery" but I'm sure all his supportive internet pals will give him big cyber hugs anyway. What's the gentleman's plan for paying his internet bill and cell phone? He's praying to god for new customers for his side business. Oh, that ought to work just as well as The Secret. (Plus, isn't there something about god helping those who help themselves? I think there is!)
xoxo
Thursday, October 22, 2009
taking out lackey...
was a stellar fucking idea. Grrrrr. The Angels' relief pitchers are gonna blow this series for them.
Well, on the plus side, a Yankees-Phillies World Series is a World Series I can completely ignore, leaving me oh-so-much-more time for cleaning!
xoxo
Well, on the plus side, a Yankees-Phillies World Series is a World Series I can completely ignore, leaving me oh-so-much-more time for cleaning!
xoxo
variiiiiiious
I don't think I've done a half-assed Things n' Stuff post in awhile and you know you want one, babeh. So here goes.
1.) Tree disgruntlement! I have this tree in front of my house (the one that drops all those leaves I gotta rake? yeah, that one) which is not *my* tree. It's the city's. There are an errant few branches from it that are hanging over the sidewalk and almost onto my "lawn." All summer I've been making grumbly noises about calling the DPW and bitching that they ought to come trim the damn thing. Well, imagine my surprise (just imagine it!) when I came home the other night (after dark, because I worked late and it gets dark early now ::sob::) and my dad said, "They were out trimming the trees on the street today." Hmm, thought I, I wonder why it didn't register to me that the hazardous tree branch was gone when I came up my sidewalk? I must just have been tired and spacing! Oh, no, no, no, no. The next day, in daylight, I see that the city came and trimmed the branches from around where they were growing near the telephone wires *and that's it*. Really, DPW workers? Really? You were out there trimming trees and you only did the bare minimum required of you? Is it my responsibility to trim *your* tree where it is overgrowing my property? Do I not pay a crapload of taxes, lazy DPW douches? Sigh.
2.) Guilt! So, I had yet another doctor's appointment today, the timing of which I could not choose (i.e. "We want to see you back in two weeks and this is the only thing we have.") So, I blocked out my time in work. I was originally thinking/planning that I could go into work for part of the afternoon, but then I realized, realistically, that my PCP, unless you get a very early morning appointment, is always running half an hour to 45 minutes behind, and that I had no idea how long I'd be in there once I finally got seen and blah blah. So I planned to take off the whole day. Well, our lil MILF left me a voicemail telling me the on-call doctor wanted to know if I could come in. I will edit out the boring details of our not being able to get in touch with each other and so forth, but to cut to the chase, basically when we did speak I told her unless this was a really serious emergency that could not wait till tomorrow, I would strongly prefer not to come in. She told me she would relay the message. (She also told me that she had already told the on-call doc that I have been having a lot of medical problems and concurrent appointments and that if I wasn't coming to work, that was most likely why, since I'm always at work. I love that girl. Seriously. I do.) No one called me back and told me this was a crucial emergency that required my presence, so I did not go to work. And, of course, then I felt guilty. My appointment didn't take *that* long--even though they didn't call me in until 30 minutes after my appointment time, they did *not* leave me waiting in the room unattended forever, which is usually the next part of the process. Considering that in the past two weeks I have been called at home five or six times (and it's not that I'm on-call either) to either come in early, stay late, or otherwise work when I'm not officially supposed to be there, and this is the first time I haven't accommodated them, there is no logical reason I should feel guilty. But there ya go.
3.) Purging! You cannot believe the stuff I am finding in that horrible cat box office. There was a catalog from This End Up, a company which I do not believe has been in business in this millennium. There were a couple of books that I seriously thought I had already searched my whole house for. There were two bags of clothing that I apparently was going to donate to charity circa 2001 and never got around to. There are tax documents, oh, god, the tax documents. (Can they still audit me for 1997? And if so, I don't know what good it would have done me before yesterday, because I had no idea those files were in there.) There were the original packing boxes from computers I bought three computers ago, because I am paranoid about the warning that if you don't have the original packaging it fucking voids the warranty or some such shit, and then it never gets thrown away, long after the computer has gone. I found Evil Kitty's spay certificate. I found my handwritten "financial disclosure" form from my divorce in a certified mail envelope. (With no other divorce documents. I've got no idea where my actual decree is.) I was gonna put that form through the shredder and then I stopped myself. I have no idea why. Is anyone ever going to need to see it again? I think not. In any case, as you can see, I need an administrative assistant as well as a contractor second husband, because I am not good at organizing my papers, no matter how many file folders and such I purchase. Oh, speaking of which, I also at one point was apparently way into purchasing office supplies because you would not believe the number and variety of envelopes, binders, printer paper, etc, I found. I could open my own little mini-Staples! But if you need any size envelope, lemme know. I'm your girl.
xoxo
1.) Tree disgruntlement! I have this tree in front of my house (the one that drops all those leaves I gotta rake? yeah, that one) which is not *my* tree. It's the city's. There are an errant few branches from it that are hanging over the sidewalk and almost onto my "lawn." All summer I've been making grumbly noises about calling the DPW and bitching that they ought to come trim the damn thing. Well, imagine my surprise (just imagine it!) when I came home the other night (after dark, because I worked late and it gets dark early now ::sob::) and my dad said, "They were out trimming the trees on the street today." Hmm, thought I, I wonder why it didn't register to me that the hazardous tree branch was gone when I came up my sidewalk? I must just have been tired and spacing! Oh, no, no, no, no. The next day, in daylight, I see that the city came and trimmed the branches from around where they were growing near the telephone wires *and that's it*. Really, DPW workers? Really? You were out there trimming trees and you only did the bare minimum required of you? Is it my responsibility to trim *your* tree where it is overgrowing my property? Do I not pay a crapload of taxes, lazy DPW douches? Sigh.
2.) Guilt! So, I had yet another doctor's appointment today, the timing of which I could not choose (i.e. "We want to see you back in two weeks and this is the only thing we have.") So, I blocked out my time in work. I was originally thinking/planning that I could go into work for part of the afternoon, but then I realized, realistically, that my PCP, unless you get a very early morning appointment, is always running half an hour to 45 minutes behind, and that I had no idea how long I'd be in there once I finally got seen and blah blah. So I planned to take off the whole day. Well, our lil MILF left me a voicemail telling me the on-call doctor wanted to know if I could come in. I will edit out the boring details of our not being able to get in touch with each other and so forth, but to cut to the chase, basically when we did speak I told her unless this was a really serious emergency that could not wait till tomorrow, I would strongly prefer not to come in. She told me she would relay the message. (She also told me that she had already told the on-call doc that I have been having a lot of medical problems and concurrent appointments and that if I wasn't coming to work, that was most likely why, since I'm always at work. I love that girl. Seriously. I do.) No one called me back and told me this was a crucial emergency that required my presence, so I did not go to work. And, of course, then I felt guilty. My appointment didn't take *that* long--even though they didn't call me in until 30 minutes after my appointment time, they did *not* leave me waiting in the room unattended forever, which is usually the next part of the process. Considering that in the past two weeks I have been called at home five or six times (and it's not that I'm on-call either) to either come in early, stay late, or otherwise work when I'm not officially supposed to be there, and this is the first time I haven't accommodated them, there is no logical reason I should feel guilty. But there ya go.
3.) Purging! You cannot believe the stuff I am finding in that horrible cat box office. There was a catalog from This End Up, a company which I do not believe has been in business in this millennium. There were a couple of books that I seriously thought I had already searched my whole house for. There were two bags of clothing that I apparently was going to donate to charity circa 2001 and never got around to. There are tax documents, oh, god, the tax documents. (Can they still audit me for 1997? And if so, I don't know what good it would have done me before yesterday, because I had no idea those files were in there.) There were the original packing boxes from computers I bought three computers ago, because I am paranoid about the warning that if you don't have the original packaging it fucking voids the warranty or some such shit, and then it never gets thrown away, long after the computer has gone. I found Evil Kitty's spay certificate. I found my handwritten "financial disclosure" form from my divorce in a certified mail envelope. (With no other divorce documents. I've got no idea where my actual decree is.) I was gonna put that form through the shredder and then I stopped myself. I have no idea why. Is anyone ever going to need to see it again? I think not. In any case, as you can see, I need an administrative assistant as well as a contractor second husband, because I am not good at organizing my papers, no matter how many file folders and such I purchase. Oh, speaking of which, I also at one point was apparently way into purchasing office supplies because you would not believe the number and variety of envelopes, binders, printer paper, etc, I found. I could open my own little mini-Staples! But if you need any size envelope, lemme know. I'm your girl.
xoxo
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
character assassination
One more thing, then I swear, I'm going into that cat box room to vanquish it.
One of the things I'm kind of fascinated with is what (personality) traits are considered good and bad in 2009 America. I take my evidence on this from what I read on the internet, the internet being, of course, the easiest way to see the opinions of a bunch of varied strangers, sane and insane, old and young.
If we are to take these citizens of the internet at their word, the three biggest sins, from least to most, are adultery, [perceived] cruelty to animals, and OMG laziness. I once observed (and some of you did, too) a young woman post innocuously about having had her cat declawed--a procedure I personally would not do, but a legitimate veterinary practice that obviously at least some vets think is reasonable--and not only was she eviscerated for days and weeks, flame war to end all flame wars, she could not post anything at all about any topic on that board for the next year or more without being bullied by a group of cyber-enemies who took pride in painting her as a cross between Hitler and Pol Pot. She could have cheerfully confessed to eating babies, stealing her grandmother's social security checks, and having her last four ex-boyfriends buried under the rose bushes without arousing the same loathing and disgust. For having the cat declawed. So, obviously, doing something "mean" to a housepet (eating cheeseburgers and wearing leather doesn't count as animal cruelty, duh) is almost the Worst Thing Ever.
But having read oh-so-much internet discussion of that Hoarders show (I can't help it, I can't look away, plus it's so motivating in making you want to clean your own house), I have come to the conclusion that even declawing your cat is not as bad as being a Lazy Slob. Really. Pedophilia, spousal abuse, meth addiction, none of it even comes close as being truly horrible as not scrubbing out your toilets, hanging up your clothes, and washing the dishes *simply because you can't be arsed*. If you have a "legitimate" excuse for this--you're an OCD hoarder, you have fibromyalgia, your husband died 5 months ago and you're deeply depressed--well, maybe you're only Mussolini, not Hitler, but the suspicion is hanging over your head that that's only an excuse and you are in reality a Lazy Slob. And so, Hitler after all.
I find this all very amusing, because as you all know, I freely admit to being lazy, and while it's something that I struggle with somewhat, I think it's *far* from my worst character flaw. If someone were to throw it in my face as an insult, I'd be all, "Uh, yeah, I know I'm lazy. What's your point?"
On the other hand, your citizens of the internet take pride in "being a bitch." That is not, apparently, a flaw or something to be ashamed of or avoided. Meanness has, in 2009 America, been conflated with strength, so the nastier you are capable of being, the more you can apparently take pride in yourself. I find that all very amusing as well.
Now I'ma throw some things out. Peace!
xoxo
One of the things I'm kind of fascinated with is what (personality) traits are considered good and bad in 2009 America. I take my evidence on this from what I read on the internet, the internet being, of course, the easiest way to see the opinions of a bunch of varied strangers, sane and insane, old and young.
If we are to take these citizens of the internet at their word, the three biggest sins, from least to most, are adultery, [perceived] cruelty to animals, and OMG laziness. I once observed (and some of you did, too) a young woman post innocuously about having had her cat declawed--a procedure I personally would not do, but a legitimate veterinary practice that obviously at least some vets think is reasonable--and not only was she eviscerated for days and weeks, flame war to end all flame wars, she could not post anything at all about any topic on that board for the next year or more without being bullied by a group of cyber-enemies who took pride in painting her as a cross between Hitler and Pol Pot. She could have cheerfully confessed to eating babies, stealing her grandmother's social security checks, and having her last four ex-boyfriends buried under the rose bushes without arousing the same loathing and disgust. For having the cat declawed. So, obviously, doing something "mean" to a housepet (eating cheeseburgers and wearing leather doesn't count as animal cruelty, duh) is almost the Worst Thing Ever.
But having read oh-so-much internet discussion of that Hoarders show (I can't help it, I can't look away, plus it's so motivating in making you want to clean your own house), I have come to the conclusion that even declawing your cat is not as bad as being a Lazy Slob. Really. Pedophilia, spousal abuse, meth addiction, none of it even comes close as being truly horrible as not scrubbing out your toilets, hanging up your clothes, and washing the dishes *simply because you can't be arsed*. If you have a "legitimate" excuse for this--you're an OCD hoarder, you have fibromyalgia, your husband died 5 months ago and you're deeply depressed--well, maybe you're only Mussolini, not Hitler, but the suspicion is hanging over your head that that's only an excuse and you are in reality a Lazy Slob. And so, Hitler after all.
I find this all very amusing, because as you all know, I freely admit to being lazy, and while it's something that I struggle with somewhat, I think it's *far* from my worst character flaw. If someone were to throw it in my face as an insult, I'd be all, "Uh, yeah, I know I'm lazy. What's your point?"
On the other hand, your citizens of the internet take pride in "being a bitch." That is not, apparently, a flaw or something to be ashamed of or avoided. Meanness has, in 2009 America, been conflated with strength, so the nastier you are capable of being, the more you can apparently take pride in yourself. I find that all very amusing as well.
Now I'ma throw some things out. Peace!
xoxo
too much stuff
In case you didn't notice, ahem, I packed up 288 books for donation. I could have done more, but I ran out of boxes that were of a reasonable size to pack them in. Those are going out on October 30. There's also an Epilepsy Foundation pickup in my neighborhood 10/28, so I'm going to get some things together for that today. And there's the annual coat drive in work which I'm sure some of my older jackets could and should go to. That's not even mentioning the things that I've plain thrown out while trying to declutter this house or the stuff that, hand to god, I'm calling the 1-800-gotjunk guys for.
So I think about this. There's all my things going to charity. The coat drive coats will go directly to people who ain't got coats, which is good. The other stuff will go to resale/charity shops where, most probably, it will be bought by other people like me who have too much crap to begin with. Maybe to replace other crap they've donated, in one of those vicious cycles. The stuff that doesn't sell in the charity shops gets tossed anyway, or maybe sold to third world countries. (Which is why, also hand to god, I expect to someday see some malnourished famine victim in Africa on my TV wearing my ironic I'm Too Punk Rock For This t-shirt.)
Meanwhile, I go to my favorite stores, like the Tarzhay, and you know my frustration is that there is not one single thing there that isn't made in China. There are whole superstores full of more and more stuff, most of which is shoddy crap, that will be ultimately bought by people who will then donate it to charity where it will be bought by other people, or throw it away, and replace it with more crap and WHERE DOES IT ALL END? There's only a finite amount of crap any one person can use, keep, or store, and yet more and more crap is made and imported and sold every day and we're kinda told it has to be this way or the whole economy will crash. I dunno. At least your ironic t-shirts can be used as rags if they don't end up covering the chests of refugees, so maybe we should all concentrate on buying more of those.
In other news, one of the consumer items I dearly wish I owned, if only for today, is a scanner, because I found yesterday, while beginning my cleaning of the dreaded cat box room cum office, a photo of her from kittenhood, in which she is wrestling with one of those minipumpkin/gourds and her ears are pulled back in such a way that she appears to have horns. It's the best Halloween picture evah, yet I cannot share it with you. Boo!
xoxo
So I think about this. There's all my things going to charity. The coat drive coats will go directly to people who ain't got coats, which is good. The other stuff will go to resale/charity shops where, most probably, it will be bought by other people like me who have too much crap to begin with. Maybe to replace other crap they've donated, in one of those vicious cycles. The stuff that doesn't sell in the charity shops gets tossed anyway, or maybe sold to third world countries. (Which is why, also hand to god, I expect to someday see some malnourished famine victim in Africa on my TV wearing my ironic I'm Too Punk Rock For This t-shirt.)
Meanwhile, I go to my favorite stores, like the Tarzhay, and you know my frustration is that there is not one single thing there that isn't made in China. There are whole superstores full of more and more stuff, most of which is shoddy crap, that will be ultimately bought by people who will then donate it to charity where it will be bought by other people, or throw it away, and replace it with more crap and WHERE DOES IT ALL END? There's only a finite amount of crap any one person can use, keep, or store, and yet more and more crap is made and imported and sold every day and we're kinda told it has to be this way or the whole economy will crash. I dunno. At least your ironic t-shirts can be used as rags if they don't end up covering the chests of refugees, so maybe we should all concentrate on buying more of those.
In other news, one of the consumer items I dearly wish I owned, if only for today, is a scanner, because I found yesterday, while beginning my cleaning of the dreaded cat box room cum office, a photo of her from kittenhood, in which she is wrestling with one of those minipumpkin/gourds and her ears are pulled back in such a way that she appears to have horns. It's the best Halloween picture evah, yet I cannot share it with you. Boo!
xoxo
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
skip if you need to
I promise I will stop blogging about my mental status *any day now* but, actually, that isn't exactly what this is about anyway.
In a forum I read online which has nothing to do with depression per se but which is frequented by a fair number of people with, shall we say, mental challenges of one kind or another (duh, Andrea, that's the whole interwebs), a woman posted the other day that she has realized that she has never, her whole life, been happy and she's not actually sure how *to* be happy. A lot of interesting responses to that, but actually, it was timely for me in another way.
The other day I was in a friend's car and I was exhausted, depressed, and with a splitting headache. So I said to my friend (because I'm bossy that way), "I'ma close my eyes for awhile and you can just tell me a nice story. Tell me a story about the happiest day of your life." And my friend was flummoxed, claiming to never have thought about the subject before, and having no idea what to say. I tried to be reassuring that there was no grade on this (ha!) and that I wouldn't know if purported happiest day of friend's life was actually in reality the sixth most or eighth most happiest. But no go. My friend claimed that perhaps they were just not a happy person, being unable to come up with any strong happy memories. (I found that interesting because said friend has, for the entire length of our acquaintance, always denied being depressed except in one case in reaction to a specific stimulus. But combined with the "I don't know how to be happy" woman's post, I think I've had a wee epiphany. Being an unhappy person and being depressed are two totally different things. More about which...)
"Sigh. Fine." I said to my friend. "If you're not going to entertain me, you'll just have to listen to me tell a happy story instead." And I proceeded to expound on every detail of the day that D was born. Which included, besides the agonizing pain of, y'know, labor, some scary drama with (ultimately minor) birth complications, a really mean anesthesiologist who yelled at me when she came in to give me an emergency spinal so they could rip poor D out with the forceps, and my husband with his sad and scared face pressed up against the window when they threw him out so mean anesthesiologist could do her thing. My friend said, "And even with all that, that's one of the happiest days of your life?" And I was like, well, yeah, of course, that was the day I "met" my baby, the person I would from that day forward till the end of my life love more than anyone else ever, for the first time. I mean, how could it not be a transcendent moment of joy?
And so it occurs to me that I am not an unhappy person. Despite my mood disorder, and despite my relatively dark (some of us might say "realistic") take on life, I know how to be happy. I know what joy feels like. I can look back to some really tough parts of my life and remember moments of pleasure, happiness, and contentment. A couple of you all blog-lived with me through the summer of D's hospitalization, and maybe remember the post I wrote the night he came home. He was still so very sick and I was still so very worried, but I was ecstatic to have him alive, and home with us. I remember the overwhelming happiness I felt to see him on his own couch, the paper sacks of his belongings in the hall, and knowing I didn't have to bring him back to the ward in an hour or three. In that darkness, there was joy, and I remember acutely how it felt, with my heart all full.
One of the responses to the unhappy lady's post was someone else saying that while they *tried* to be happy, their whole life was a struggle, and *other people could confirm that*, that other people just had things handed to them easier than this person did. And while I'll admit that I myself occasionally fall into the "why do *I* have to be the person who has x, y, and z challenges, when other people skate through life with healthy children and rich husbands and 'a Mercedes Benz and room for a pony'" pattern of thinking, those *are* fleeting thoughts and I know them to be irrational. This woman, on the other hand, was so adamant that she tries and tries and tries to be positive and does "The Secret" [insert editorial eye roll] but it doesn't do her any good and other people still get everything while she gets nothing. And I'm thinking, dwelling on how other people are so much happier than you are and how unfair it is and how all your friends agree, ain't exactly positive thinking, doll, so maybe you should read your mystical New Age mumbo jumbo again or something and try to glean a different insight. But some people, obviously, can't *not* be negative and all the self-help books in the world ain't gonna cure that. (Maybe that is depression, or maybe it's just the inability to be happy. I'm not sure.)
And as a final, real-life tie-in, I occasionally in work get parents who come in with the attitude that I'll *never* be able to test their child or that their child will never be able to cooperate with [whatever]. I had two this very morning! And I always say, "Well, let's just be positive and hope for the best and do what we can do and try what we can try. Let's not jinx it or worry about it too much ahead of time." But it always sort of astounds me that people not only approach the whole business with such pessimism, but also verbalize it, in front of the damn kid no less. (And in both cases today I "won", by which I mean to say, *they* won, because I got what we needed. No thanks to pessimists with bad attitudes.)
And that's all I've got to say about happiness today.
xoxo
In a forum I read online which has nothing to do with depression per se but which is frequented by a fair number of people with, shall we say, mental challenges of one kind or another (duh, Andrea, that's the whole interwebs), a woman posted the other day that she has realized that she has never, her whole life, been happy and she's not actually sure how *to* be happy. A lot of interesting responses to that, but actually, it was timely for me in another way.
The other day I was in a friend's car and I was exhausted, depressed, and with a splitting headache. So I said to my friend (because I'm bossy that way), "I'ma close my eyes for awhile and you can just tell me a nice story. Tell me a story about the happiest day of your life." And my friend was flummoxed, claiming to never have thought about the subject before, and having no idea what to say. I tried to be reassuring that there was no grade on this (ha!) and that I wouldn't know if purported happiest day of friend's life was actually in reality the sixth most or eighth most happiest. But no go. My friend claimed that perhaps they were just not a happy person, being unable to come up with any strong happy memories. (I found that interesting because said friend has, for the entire length of our acquaintance, always denied being depressed except in one case in reaction to a specific stimulus. But combined with the "I don't know how to be happy" woman's post, I think I've had a wee epiphany. Being an unhappy person and being depressed are two totally different things. More about which...)
"Sigh. Fine." I said to my friend. "If you're not going to entertain me, you'll just have to listen to me tell a happy story instead." And I proceeded to expound on every detail of the day that D was born. Which included, besides the agonizing pain of, y'know, labor, some scary drama with (ultimately minor) birth complications, a really mean anesthesiologist who yelled at me when she came in to give me an emergency spinal so they could rip poor D out with the forceps, and my husband with his sad and scared face pressed up against the window when they threw him out so mean anesthesiologist could do her thing. My friend said, "And even with all that, that's one of the happiest days of your life?" And I was like, well, yeah, of course, that was the day I "met" my baby, the person I would from that day forward till the end of my life love more than anyone else ever, for the first time. I mean, how could it not be a transcendent moment of joy?
And so it occurs to me that I am not an unhappy person. Despite my mood disorder, and despite my relatively dark (some of us might say "realistic") take on life, I know how to be happy. I know what joy feels like. I can look back to some really tough parts of my life and remember moments of pleasure, happiness, and contentment. A couple of you all blog-lived with me through the summer of D's hospitalization, and maybe remember the post I wrote the night he came home. He was still so very sick and I was still so very worried, but I was ecstatic to have him alive, and home with us. I remember the overwhelming happiness I felt to see him on his own couch, the paper sacks of his belongings in the hall, and knowing I didn't have to bring him back to the ward in an hour or three. In that darkness, there was joy, and I remember acutely how it felt, with my heart all full.
One of the responses to the unhappy lady's post was someone else saying that while they *tried* to be happy, their whole life was a struggle, and *other people could confirm that*, that other people just had things handed to them easier than this person did. And while I'll admit that I myself occasionally fall into the "why do *I* have to be the person who has x, y, and z challenges, when other people skate through life with healthy children and rich husbands and 'a Mercedes Benz and room for a pony'" pattern of thinking, those *are* fleeting thoughts and I know them to be irrational. This woman, on the other hand, was so adamant that she tries and tries and tries to be positive and does "The Secret" [insert editorial eye roll] but it doesn't do her any good and other people still get everything while she gets nothing. And I'm thinking, dwelling on how other people are so much happier than you are and how unfair it is and how all your friends agree, ain't exactly positive thinking, doll, so maybe you should read your mystical New Age mumbo jumbo again or something and try to glean a different insight. But some people, obviously, can't *not* be negative and all the self-help books in the world ain't gonna cure that. (Maybe that is depression, or maybe it's just the inability to be happy. I'm not sure.)
And as a final, real-life tie-in, I occasionally in work get parents who come in with the attitude that I'll *never* be able to test their child or that their child will never be able to cooperate with [whatever]. I had two this very morning! And I always say, "Well, let's just be positive and hope for the best and do what we can do and try what we can try. Let's not jinx it or worry about it too much ahead of time." But it always sort of astounds me that people not only approach the whole business with such pessimism, but also verbalize it, in front of the damn kid no less. (And in both cases today I "won", by which I mean to say, *they* won, because I got what we needed. No thanks to pessimists with bad attitudes.)
And that's all I've got to say about happiness today.
xoxo
Monday, October 19, 2009
adventureland
Can I start by saying that there is something seriously wrong when you can watch a movie for a good five minutes and be totally unaware that it is, instead of the present day, set in 1987, because all the 20 year olds in it are dressed exactly like any hipster 20 year old you'd see on the street today? (You damn kids develop your own fashion trends***, and oh yeah, get offa my lawn.) It took the appearance of Ronald Reagan addressing the nation on TV for me to realize this was in fact set in the 80s. I also watched the entire movie to the credits before I realized that the female lead is in fact that chick from the Twilight movie, but I'll chalk that up to my recent usage of prescription drugs. She looked awfully pretty in Adventureland and I can't really swear to that from Twilight, but maybe the whole sparkly vampire thing distracted me from her good looks.
But, speaking of which, while the fashions in Adventureland were faithful to the mid-80s as I remember them, it always cracks me up that in these modern day movies and TV shows set in that period, they won't *really* give the female lead/hot girl actual 80s hair. Supporting characters, sure, but it's as if the stylists believe that no one today could get past the horror of teased bangs to actually find a woman pretty, so they cheat. Trust me, in the real 1987, Em's hair would not have been the tastefully slightly-wavy 'do she has in the movie.
Okay, sartorial issues out of the way, let's discuss what else is missing in 80s verite. While they get the extremely casual attitude towards drinking and driving, the sexual mores, and the omnipresent pot usage right, they're missing a vice. Smoking. Other than one character who smokes a pipe as an affectation, none of these 20-somethings smoke in this movie. In the real 1987, that'd be unrealistic to the extreme.
So, what'd you think of the actual movie, Andrea? Oh, yeah. That. It was good. Light and pleasant entertainment. Worth renting.
xoxo
***If Mr Indemnity is reading this, he's gonna call foul, because he knows there's this little waitress at the Gulu that I have a girl-crush on simply because every time I go in there, she's wearing something that I myself wore in 1987, and she's adorable. I'm always, "Oh! I had shoes just like that!" and "OMG, I had those jeans! I wonder if they're vintage..." Of course, we did not pair those fashion items with tattoos and facial piercings in 1987, but close enough.
But, speaking of which, while the fashions in Adventureland were faithful to the mid-80s as I remember them, it always cracks me up that in these modern day movies and TV shows set in that period, they won't *really* give the female lead/hot girl actual 80s hair. Supporting characters, sure, but it's as if the stylists believe that no one today could get past the horror of teased bangs to actually find a woman pretty, so they cheat. Trust me, in the real 1987, Em's hair would not have been the tastefully slightly-wavy 'do she has in the movie.
Okay, sartorial issues out of the way, let's discuss what else is missing in 80s verite. While they get the extremely casual attitude towards drinking and driving, the sexual mores, and the omnipresent pot usage right, they're missing a vice. Smoking. Other than one character who smokes a pipe as an affectation, none of these 20-somethings smoke in this movie. In the real 1987, that'd be unrealistic to the extreme.
So, what'd you think of the actual movie, Andrea? Oh, yeah. That. It was good. Light and pleasant entertainment. Worth renting.
xoxo
***If Mr Indemnity is reading this, he's gonna call foul, because he knows there's this little waitress at the Gulu that I have a girl-crush on simply because every time I go in there, she's wearing something that I myself wore in 1987, and she's adorable. I'm always, "Oh! I had shoes just like that!" and "OMG, I had those jeans! I wonder if they're vintage..." Of course, we did not pair those fashion items with tattoos and facial piercings in 1987, but close enough.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
trying real hard
I realized today that the only thing that's helping me feel somewhat calm and not weepy is doing things in my house. This is both good and bad.
Good in that, yeah, I'm doing things in my house. Bad in that this is the kind of thing that leads to things like isolating. The last time I had a serious bout of clinical depression (in the early/mid-90s) the only thing I wanted to do in my free time (i.e. when I wasn't working and D was with his dad) was sit in my house, listen to the radio, and write. Hence my unpublished and unpublishable novel and my love for grunge. While some excellent things did come from this--I became a *much* better writer from the practice and some of the short stories I wrote towards the end of that practice period eventually got published and made me a pittance of money--I can't really recommend staying in the house and not interacting with other people as a permanent coping mechanism, no matter how comforting or even useful it can be. Um, see: my kid.
Anyway. I decided to not take any Ativan today, because I realized after taking it everyday for eight days or so, that my dry mouth, blurred vision, and pounding headache were side effects. D'oh. So I figured I gotta really save it for when I really, really need it and not use it prophylacticly. And what better day not to take it at all than a day when I could stay home all day. So this is what I did.
Packed up 288 books (eight boxes' worth) for donation and emailed to arrange a pickup. Cleaned my kitchen. Put some things away in my sideboard/china cabinet after getting rid of some stuff that didn't belong in there. Vacuumed my dad's room and cleaned up in there a little. Vacuumed the hallway. Did four loads of laundry including my sheets, and changed my bed. Got trash ready for trash day tomorrow. Stowed away some cardboard boxes that really need to be cut up for recycling. (I'll get to it, I'll get to it...mandatory cardboard recycling is like the bane of my existence.) Made short ribs for dinner, and some disgusting instant pudding for the guys. Again, not necessarily in that order. But I did a lot of stuff. I might do some more.
And I only cried for maybe three minutes all day, so there's that.
xoxo
Good in that, yeah, I'm doing things in my house. Bad in that this is the kind of thing that leads to things like isolating. The last time I had a serious bout of clinical depression (in the early/mid-90s) the only thing I wanted to do in my free time (i.e. when I wasn't working and D was with his dad) was sit in my house, listen to the radio, and write. Hence my unpublished and unpublishable novel and my love for grunge. While some excellent things did come from this--I became a *much* better writer from the practice and some of the short stories I wrote towards the end of that practice period eventually got published and made me a pittance of money--I can't really recommend staying in the house and not interacting with other people as a permanent coping mechanism, no matter how comforting or even useful it can be. Um, see: my kid.
Anyway. I decided to not take any Ativan today, because I realized after taking it everyday for eight days or so, that my dry mouth, blurred vision, and pounding headache were side effects. D'oh. So I figured I gotta really save it for when I really, really need it and not use it prophylacticly. And what better day not to take it at all than a day when I could stay home all day. So this is what I did.
Packed up 288 books (eight boxes' worth) for donation and emailed to arrange a pickup. Cleaned my kitchen. Put some things away in my sideboard/china cabinet after getting rid of some stuff that didn't belong in there. Vacuumed my dad's room and cleaned up in there a little. Vacuumed the hallway. Did four loads of laundry including my sheets, and changed my bed. Got trash ready for trash day tomorrow. Stowed away some cardboard boxes that really need to be cut up for recycling. (I'll get to it, I'll get to it...mandatory cardboard recycling is like the bane of my existence.) Made short ribs for dinner, and some disgusting instant pudding for the guys. Again, not necessarily in that order. But I did a lot of stuff. I might do some more.
And I only cried for maybe three minutes all day, so there's that.
xoxo
sugar
It took me over a week to watch this movie, but not because it wasn't good. No, it's just that it's 90% in Spanish, so unless your conversational Spanish is up to it, you kinda have to read the subtitles. And it is a known and proven fact that reading the subtitles while I'm in bed leads to sleep in fifteen minutes or less. Nevertheless, early this morning I managed to finish watching the whole film.
Now, this movie involves two of my favorite blog topics, baseball and the DR. I guess anyone who's even a casual baseball fan has heard of the "baseball academies" in the Dominican and the obsession with the game down there, but most of us have never thought much of the thousands and thousands of kids who are good enough to get a shot but not good enough to be Pedro Martinez or Big Papi. What happens when you plunk down a nineteen year old kid from some backwater village who speaks maybe ten words of English into the middle of (backwater) Iowa to play A ball? For example, Sugar, who is introduced to ordering French toast off the breakfast menu his very first morning at extended spring training is then doomed to ordering French toast for many days (phone call home: "How's the food?" "Okay. Kind of sweet.") until a kindly waitress brings him three kinds of eggs on the house and teaches him what they are. ("These are scrambled...scrambled...")
Anyway, the movie avoids the typical heartwarming sports movie cliches where our protagonist wins the big game against all odds, etc, in favor of a more realistic take. On the more negative side, all the main characters are portrayed by non-actor (and ball-playing) Dominicans and while the kid who plays Sugar does okay with his role, he doesn't have the charisma or presence to really carry off the scenes where so much is supposed to be shown through the expression on his face, the look in his eyes, not the dialogue.
But, all in all, worth watching if you're interested in baseball, immigration, examination of the American Dream, and so forth and so on.
xoxo
Now, this movie involves two of my favorite blog topics, baseball and the DR. I guess anyone who's even a casual baseball fan has heard of the "baseball academies" in the Dominican and the obsession with the game down there, but most of us have never thought much of the thousands and thousands of kids who are good enough to get a shot but not good enough to be Pedro Martinez or Big Papi. What happens when you plunk down a nineteen year old kid from some backwater village who speaks maybe ten words of English into the middle of (backwater) Iowa to play A ball? For example, Sugar, who is introduced to ordering French toast off the breakfast menu his very first morning at extended spring training is then doomed to ordering French toast for many days (phone call home: "How's the food?" "Okay. Kind of sweet.") until a kindly waitress brings him three kinds of eggs on the house and teaches him what they are. ("These are scrambled...scrambled...")
Anyway, the movie avoids the typical heartwarming sports movie cliches where our protagonist wins the big game against all odds, etc, in favor of a more realistic take. On the more negative side, all the main characters are portrayed by non-actor (and ball-playing) Dominicans and while the kid who plays Sugar does okay with his role, he doesn't have the charisma or presence to really carry off the scenes where so much is supposed to be shown through the expression on his face, the look in his eyes, not the dialogue.
But, all in all, worth watching if you're interested in baseball, immigration, examination of the American Dream, and so forth and so on.
xoxo
Saturday, October 17, 2009
brrr, kids
Today I am wearing kneesocks and, for the first time this fall, the infamous avocado wool scarf that as you all know becomes pretty much a permanent part of my neck from October through April. I am not complaining, though. This is damn good sleeping weather. Though, frankly, on benzos, all weather is good sleeping weather. (You heard it here first.)
But the cold weather and the realization that it is in fact the middle of October leads me to ponder that, sadly, because of my mental upheavals, I am not even excited for my favorite holiday of the year this year. I don't even think I will have a Halloween costume. I have my little Pier 1 ghost sitting here on my work computer, but that has been the extent of my decorating. I don't even *know* where my skull necklace is. Sigh. I've got two weeks to rediscover my sense of child-like wonder and I don't see it happening.
But as a wee step in that direction, I give you:
Kittens in Halloween costumes! Even depressed people gotta smile at that, right?
xoxo
But the cold weather and the realization that it is in fact the middle of October leads me to ponder that, sadly, because of my mental upheavals, I am not even excited for my favorite holiday of the year this year. I don't even think I will have a Halloween costume. I have my little Pier 1 ghost sitting here on my work computer, but that has been the extent of my decorating. I don't even *know* where my skull necklace is. Sigh. I've got two weeks to rediscover my sense of child-like wonder and I don't see it happening.
But as a wee step in that direction, I give you:
Kittens in Halloween costumes! Even depressed people gotta smile at that, right?
xoxo
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
pm update
I raked five bags of leaves. I forced myself to walk to the post office to mail the bills, rather than just drop them in the "out mail" in my mailbox. I went to CVS to pick up the guys' prescriptions and did not throw a fit when an older lady cut me in the pharmacy line (she claimed when writing out her check that she'd forgotten her reading glasses, but I am plenty big enough to see without reading glasses, thankyouverymuch.) I filled out the forms online for my dad since apparently the Commonwealth of MA has both he and my dead mom on the unclaimed property list. I got and put away groceries. (None of this necessarily in that order.) And now I'm gonna do a few more things.
I don't necessarily think that fresh air, exercise, and productivity makes me feel any better, but this is like the most perfect of all weather, so it seems like a waste to, y'know, waste it. So.
Oh, and in the annals of "Oh, Andrea, you are such a moron" as well as the annals of "whoever designed this house was on drugs, probably coke 'cause it was the 80s", upstairs I have two adjoining rooms with (I think they call them) can lights in the ceilings, one of which also has a ceiling fan, which you will probably remember me mentioning in the context of never cleaning. Well, over a year ago, the switch the turns on those lights, as well as the fan, simply failed to work one day. Hmmmphm, I thought, just another thing in this house that needs to be fixed, but since those rooms have other lighting sources, I ignored it. (I did miss that ceiling fan this summer however.) Well, just the other day, I was looking around for Evil Kitty, and I sorta accidentally hit a wall switch way on the other side of the room that apparently goes to nothing. (We have one of those downstairs: a wall switch whose only function is to turn off the power to the outlet the TV is plugged into, wtf?) Well, guess what? The one upstairs needs to be flipped on for the controls to the can lights and the ceiling fan in those room to work. Are you kidding me? It not only makes no sense, it also took me 15 years of living in this house to figure it out. And you wonder why I'm depressed.
And now it's too cold for the ceiling fan! Son of a bitch.
xoxo
I don't necessarily think that fresh air, exercise, and productivity makes me feel any better, but this is like the most perfect of all weather, so it seems like a waste to, y'know, waste it. So.
Oh, and in the annals of "Oh, Andrea, you are such a moron" as well as the annals of "whoever designed this house was on drugs, probably coke 'cause it was the 80s", upstairs I have two adjoining rooms with (I think they call them) can lights in the ceilings, one of which also has a ceiling fan, which you will probably remember me mentioning in the context of never cleaning. Well, over a year ago, the switch the turns on those lights, as well as the fan, simply failed to work one day. Hmmmphm, I thought, just another thing in this house that needs to be fixed, but since those rooms have other lighting sources, I ignored it. (I did miss that ceiling fan this summer however.) Well, just the other day, I was looking around for Evil Kitty, and I sorta accidentally hit a wall switch way on the other side of the room that apparently goes to nothing. (We have one of those downstairs: a wall switch whose only function is to turn off the power to the outlet the TV is plugged into, wtf?) Well, guess what? The one upstairs needs to be flipped on for the controls to the can lights and the ceiling fan in those room to work. Are you kidding me? It not only makes no sense, it also took me 15 years of living in this house to figure it out. And you wonder why I'm depressed.
And now it's too cold for the ceiling fan! Son of a bitch.
xoxo
read at your own risk
Is that one of those disclaimers I'm supposed to be avoiding? I'd like to consider it, instead, as a Surgeon General's warning label or the like. Protecting pregnant women, the elderly, and those with a low tolerance for whining. Like that.
I have not been doing what you would term "well." When one spends most of a Red Sox game and pretty much the entirety of a Pats game quietly weeping on a friend's sofa--NOT, I hasten to add, that those games did not deserve wailing and rending of garments--it suggests that the ol' brain chemicals might need a little, uh, tweaking. Your humble correspondent is off the evil hormones that weren't doing her mood any good (though they were instrumental in helping beat down that uterus) and so far, the withdrawal from same has been no picnic. Both Marcy and the covering MD at my PCP's office were of the opinion that the combo of the evil hormones plus the general anesthesia might possibly have--and I'll use the technical, medical term here--fucked me up even more, but who knows?
In any case, I am on emergency benzos now, which while they stop the panic attacks, do not (OBVIOUSLY) stop me from crying for little to no reason or contemplating black, black thoughts. I do believe the next stop at next week's MD appointment is going to be antidepressants. And, um, if they consider the physical problem I have going on and do something about it, not just tell me it's hypochondria or an allergic reaction, THAT'D BE JUST PEACHY TOO.
So, yeah, here's the other thing, though. Remember how I was freaking out about money oh so very recently? Being on the Ativan and thus calm, plus being depressed, has kicked me back into wanting to spend money.
I bought me some boots:
I bought me a case of the Mrs Meyers All Purpose Cleaner off Amazon. I almost bought those kitchen lights I already posted here, but then I decided to wait till my ET Cash In actually hits my paycheck, which I am hoping is this Thursday. And I am justifying this by the fact that I have been trying (sorta) hard to not spend money (no pedis x 2 months equals ugly feet, but since the rest of me has been ugly in my depressive state, who the fuck cares?) and, yeah, ET Cash In, baby. But basically I know I'm doing it to make myself feel a little bit of pleasure, which has been lacking. I promise not to go overboard.
I also promise I'ma take a shower soon and go rake leaves, despite the fact I could easily spend all day on the couch.
xoxo
I have not been doing what you would term "well." When one spends most of a Red Sox game and pretty much the entirety of a Pats game quietly weeping on a friend's sofa--NOT, I hasten to add, that those games did not deserve wailing and rending of garments--it suggests that the ol' brain chemicals might need a little, uh, tweaking. Your humble correspondent is off the evil hormones that weren't doing her mood any good (though they were instrumental in helping beat down that uterus) and so far, the withdrawal from same has been no picnic. Both Marcy and the covering MD at my PCP's office were of the opinion that the combo of the evil hormones plus the general anesthesia might possibly have--and I'll use the technical, medical term here--fucked me up even more, but who knows?
In any case, I am on emergency benzos now, which while they stop the panic attacks, do not (OBVIOUSLY) stop me from crying for little to no reason or contemplating black, black thoughts. I do believe the next stop at next week's MD appointment is going to be antidepressants. And, um, if they consider the physical problem I have going on and do something about it, not just tell me it's hypochondria or an allergic reaction, THAT'D BE JUST PEACHY TOO.
So, yeah, here's the other thing, though. Remember how I was freaking out about money oh so very recently? Being on the Ativan and thus calm, plus being depressed, has kicked me back into wanting to spend money.
I bought me some boots:
I bought me a case of the Mrs Meyers All Purpose Cleaner off Amazon. I almost bought those kitchen lights I already posted here, but then I decided to wait till my ET Cash In actually hits my paycheck, which I am hoping is this Thursday. And I am justifying this by the fact that I have been trying (sorta) hard to not spend money (no pedis x 2 months equals ugly feet, but since the rest of me has been ugly in my depressive state, who the fuck cares?) and, yeah, ET Cash In, baby. But basically I know I'm doing it to make myself feel a little bit of pleasure, which has been lacking. I promise not to go overboard.
I also promise I'ma take a shower soon and go rake leaves, despite the fact I could easily spend all day on the couch.
xoxo
Sunday, October 11, 2009
inequalities
So, the first store I happened upon the Mrs Meyer's stuff in after falling in love with it at my teacher's house was, of course, Whole Paycheck. Which was really where I was expecting to find it.
But then yesterday after work I had to stop at Shaw's to pick up a few things. (My dad was really concerned that Evil Kitty was going to starve to death because there were only like eight cans of cat food in the cabinet plus an almost full sack of dry food. *This* is what I put up with.) Anyway, since I hadn't actually planned ahead about stopping for groceries, I didn't have my reusuable shopping bag(s) with me. But in the "Natural Harvest" section of Shaws, they sell these really nice, really big, washable organic cotton bags, of which I already have two, so I decided to buy another to fit my shite in.
To my surprise, there in the natural foods section of Shaws was a nice selection of Mrs Meyers stuff, so I don't necessarily have to trek to the Whole Foods for it. And rounding the corner, there were a bunch of gluten-free baking mixes, pizza dough, etc. Now, I've kind of been paying a little attention to this recently, knowing one person who's been dx'd with celiac disease and thus absolutely needs to stay away from the gluten, and another who's been d/x'd with gluten sensitivities and advised to omit it from her diet as much as she possibly can. And from what I understand, it's kind of a real pain in the ass and expensive.
So then I started thinking. The Shaws I was in yesterday is the one in between my house and work, not in an upscale area, but certainly middle class (despite the ghetto Market Basket across the parking lot). There's another Shaws I sometimes go to, which I may have mentioned. It's across the street from the mental health clinic D goes to, which is in the kind of neighborhood you would expect such a facility to be in. I only shop there on occasion as a desensitization exercise for D. I certainly won't buy meat there. And I was thinking, wait, they don't even have a natural foods section in that store, though it's a big enough store. If any of the poor people who need to shop there can't eat gluten, I guess they're shit out of luck. Likewise if they want to clean their apartments with less-toxic and beautifully smelling cleaning solutions. (I will say, if they really wanted to, they can take the bus from that Shaws to the other, but I dunno. I understand the business decisions involved but it still sorta sucks.)
xoxo
But then yesterday after work I had to stop at Shaw's to pick up a few things. (My dad was really concerned that Evil Kitty was going to starve to death because there were only like eight cans of cat food in the cabinet plus an almost full sack of dry food. *This* is what I put up with.) Anyway, since I hadn't actually planned ahead about stopping for groceries, I didn't have my reusuable shopping bag(s) with me. But in the "Natural Harvest" section of Shaws, they sell these really nice, really big, washable organic cotton bags, of which I already have two, so I decided to buy another to fit my shite in.
To my surprise, there in the natural foods section of Shaws was a nice selection of Mrs Meyers stuff, so I don't necessarily have to trek to the Whole Foods for it. And rounding the corner, there were a bunch of gluten-free baking mixes, pizza dough, etc. Now, I've kind of been paying a little attention to this recently, knowing one person who's been dx'd with celiac disease and thus absolutely needs to stay away from the gluten, and another who's been d/x'd with gluten sensitivities and advised to omit it from her diet as much as she possibly can. And from what I understand, it's kind of a real pain in the ass and expensive.
So then I started thinking. The Shaws I was in yesterday is the one in between my house and work, not in an upscale area, but certainly middle class (despite the ghetto Market Basket across the parking lot). There's another Shaws I sometimes go to, which I may have mentioned. It's across the street from the mental health clinic D goes to, which is in the kind of neighborhood you would expect such a facility to be in. I only shop there on occasion as a desensitization exercise for D. I certainly won't buy meat there. And I was thinking, wait, they don't even have a natural foods section in that store, though it's a big enough store. If any of the poor people who need to shop there can't eat gluten, I guess they're shit out of luck. Likewise if they want to clean their apartments with less-toxic and beautifully smelling cleaning solutions. (I will say, if they really wanted to, they can take the bus from that Shaws to the other, but I dunno. I understand the business decisions involved but it still sorta sucks.)
xoxo
Saturday, October 10, 2009
heloise's helpful hints
Household tricks I have learned this year from the interwebz that actually work the balls:
1.) To clean a really disgusting microwave with splattered food nuked into its every surface, put a large bowl of water in there, bring it to a boil, and let it boil a good long time till the microwave is supersteamy. 90+% of the gross cooked-on gunk will then easily wipe away with a paper towel without any effort on your part at all.
2.) Spraying cider vinegar around where you think the ants are coming into your house will keep them outside where they belong. No harmful chemicals necessary.
3.) Nuking your sponges in the microwave will keep them nice and nongermy.
Household trick the Benevolent L swears I taught her in our youth, but which I have no memory of imparting:
If you're buying bananas and you don't want the whole bunch, take the top "row" because they will generally be less bruised from being bumped around.
Household trick Mr Barma taught me very recently, which I have now also managed to indoctrinate my dad in:
Leave the door to your frontloader washing machine ajar after you use it, so it will dry out nicely in there and not promote mildew growth.
My favorite new household products:
Mrs Meyer's Clean Day Aromatherapeutic Household Cleaners (in the lemon verbena scent.) When I took my class this September with my favoritest of all massage teachers, she held it in her home, and she had the Mrs Meyer's hand soap and dishwashing liquid on her sink. I fell in lurrrvvvve. I now have the countertop spray, the laundry detergent, and the dish soap.
And since, as you know (or *should*, peasants) my birthday will soon be upon us, I could use:
1.) A spoon rest
2.) cute potholders/oven mitts in green-blue turquoise-ish colorways
3.) more Mrs Meyer's stuff
4.) one of those aprons from Anthropologie that I keep being too cheap to spring for, even when they're on sale
Okay! That's all the kitchen/bathroom stuff to discuss today.
xoxo
1.) To clean a really disgusting microwave with splattered food nuked into its every surface, put a large bowl of water in there, bring it to a boil, and let it boil a good long time till the microwave is supersteamy. 90+% of the gross cooked-on gunk will then easily wipe away with a paper towel without any effort on your part at all.
2.) Spraying cider vinegar around where you think the ants are coming into your house will keep them outside where they belong. No harmful chemicals necessary.
3.) Nuking your sponges in the microwave will keep them nice and nongermy.
Household trick the Benevolent L swears I taught her in our youth, but which I have no memory of imparting:
If you're buying bananas and you don't want the whole bunch, take the top "row" because they will generally be less bruised from being bumped around.
Household trick Mr Barma taught me very recently, which I have now also managed to indoctrinate my dad in:
Leave the door to your frontloader washing machine ajar after you use it, so it will dry out nicely in there and not promote mildew growth.
My favorite new household products:
Mrs Meyer's Clean Day Aromatherapeutic Household Cleaners (in the lemon verbena scent.) When I took my class this September with my favoritest of all massage teachers, she held it in her home, and she had the Mrs Meyer's hand soap and dishwashing liquid on her sink. I fell in lurrrvvvve. I now have the countertop spray, the laundry detergent, and the dish soap.
And since, as you know (or *should*, peasants) my birthday will soon be upon us, I could use:
1.) A spoon rest
2.) cute potholders/oven mitts in green-blue turquoise-ish colorways
3.) more Mrs Meyer's stuff
4.) one of those aprons from Anthropologie that I keep being too cheap to spring for, even when they're on sale
Okay! That's all the kitchen/bathroom stuff to discuss today.
xoxo
Thursday, October 8, 2009
i had a choice
I had a coupla different things I was tempted to blog about today. One was an update on my mental health. One was a reaction to something that's been going on for two days in the feminist blogosphere. Frankly, I know you people don't want to read about any of those things, but cut me a break. I can't overhear hilarious and inappropriate public conversations every day, no matter how hard I try.
So, instead, I would like to talk about a little sidestream to the feminist kerfluffle. (Which was about whether a certain [web?] comic promoted "rape culture" and about how hard it is for some men to understand that, for example, if a woman on public transportation is reading, listening to her iPod, or staring blankly out the window--in fact, if she is doing anything besides making repeated eye contact with you, smiling, and attempting to engage *you* in conversation--she doesn't want to talk to you *no matter how cute you think she is* and you should not even consider invading her space/consciousness and trying to pick her up. If it is not a clear social situation [and riding the bus is not a social situation] and the woman is not throwing out clear signals that she wants to socialize, don't attempt to make her socialize, *no matter how cute you think she is*. If the universe really wants her to be the mother of your children, the universe will arrange for you to meet again in a situation where she won't think you are a pushy, skeevy creeper and possible rapist.) So, uh, yeah, there was a lot of talk about boundaries and what makes women feel invaded upon or unsafe in public.
And what surprised me was a bunch of women saying that it bothered them if they were alone on an elevator and a man got on and spoke to them. For me, if I'm alone on an elevator and a guy boards, it makes me feel most safe/unthreatened if he does the little nod and a "good morning" or "hey" or whatever appropriate greeting, then turns towards the door and doesn't say another word. Similarly, if I'm walking down an empty street in one direction and a guy passes me walking the other way, a nod and a brief greeting as he goes by seems most non-threatening. It seems to be almost an etiquette thing, wherein the man, knowing he could be perceived as a danger, acknowledges me as a human being, shows his intention to be pleasant/civil, then leaves me the fuck alone.
It sorta reminds me of hiking where the unspoken rule of politeness seems to be that when you meet up with a person or people going in the opposite direction on the trail and someone needs to step aside, you always nod, smile, and/or say "hi" but don't engage in any other interaction. Oh, at most you might make some innocuous comment like, "Nice day, huh?" There seems to be some analogous awareness that, out in the woods, everyone makes the effort to *show* they don't mean to be perceived as any kind of threat.
So, yeah, I was surprised to hear some women say that even being briefly greeted when they're alone made them feel more, not less, threatened. So I was wondering what you all felt. If you are a woman, what, if any, behavior makes you feel most comfortable when you're alone in an isolated situation with a strange man? And, guys? Are you aware of being perceived as a potential threat when you're alone with a strange woman and, if so, what (if anything) do you do to mitigate that?
xoxo
So, instead, I would like to talk about a little sidestream to the feminist kerfluffle. (Which was about whether a certain [web?] comic promoted "rape culture" and about how hard it is for some men to understand that, for example, if a woman on public transportation is reading, listening to her iPod, or staring blankly out the window--in fact, if she is doing anything besides making repeated eye contact with you, smiling, and attempting to engage *you* in conversation--she doesn't want to talk to you *no matter how cute you think she is* and you should not even consider invading her space/consciousness and trying to pick her up. If it is not a clear social situation [and riding the bus is not a social situation] and the woman is not throwing out clear signals that she wants to socialize, don't attempt to make her socialize, *no matter how cute you think she is*. If the universe really wants her to be the mother of your children, the universe will arrange for you to meet again in a situation where she won't think you are a pushy, skeevy creeper and possible rapist.) So, uh, yeah, there was a lot of talk about boundaries and what makes women feel invaded upon or unsafe in public.
And what surprised me was a bunch of women saying that it bothered them if they were alone on an elevator and a man got on and spoke to them. For me, if I'm alone on an elevator and a guy boards, it makes me feel most safe/unthreatened if he does the little nod and a "good morning" or "hey" or whatever appropriate greeting, then turns towards the door and doesn't say another word. Similarly, if I'm walking down an empty street in one direction and a guy passes me walking the other way, a nod and a brief greeting as he goes by seems most non-threatening. It seems to be almost an etiquette thing, wherein the man, knowing he could be perceived as a danger, acknowledges me as a human being, shows his intention to be pleasant/civil, then leaves me the fuck alone.
It sorta reminds me of hiking where the unspoken rule of politeness seems to be that when you meet up with a person or people going in the opposite direction on the trail and someone needs to step aside, you always nod, smile, and/or say "hi" but don't engage in any other interaction. Oh, at most you might make some innocuous comment like, "Nice day, huh?" There seems to be some analogous awareness that, out in the woods, everyone makes the effort to *show* they don't mean to be perceived as any kind of threat.
So, yeah, I was surprised to hear some women say that even being briefly greeted when they're alone made them feel more, not less, threatened. So I was wondering what you all felt. If you are a woman, what, if any, behavior makes you feel most comfortable when you're alone in an isolated situation with a strange man? And, guys? Are you aware of being perceived as a potential threat when you're alone with a strange woman and, if so, what (if anything) do you do to mitigate that?
xoxo
Monday, October 5, 2009
okey dokey
The prison bus stop. I dunno if, despite Mr Indemnity's assertions, that one loud conversation about prison makes a bus shelter the defacto "prison stop". We need a pattern of these conversations before we honor it with an official appellation, methinks. On the other hand, this is the perfect time to tell my favorite Central Square Cambridge story, so I shall.
There are certain blocks in Central Square which are fine, and some which are seedy, and others which are s.e.e.d.y, okay? Back when I worked for the Evil Massage place, they opened a brand new facility on one of the s.e.e.d.y. blocks. Opening a brand new facility when you are about to go bankrupt and steal all your employees' money and property is probably not a wise business decision, especially in a city that is glutted with massage therapy facilities, but the place was lovely on the inside at least. Well, the elevator was a little sketchy, but otherwise. One Sunday I was working and I had no clients scheduled till the last slot of the day, which meant sitting around for three or four hours, unpaid and frustrated. But at least the promise of making a commission and a tip at the end of the day kept me from being totally homicidal.
Except the woman's appointment time came and went and she didn't show. The receptionist called her to see if she was on her way and got her voicemail. Eventually the client calls back. Apparently she took the T into Central Square, came above ground and could not find the address. According to her, she was wandering about and there were homeless people everywhere, and she got freaked. So she turned around and went home.
"OH MY GOD," I, the receptionist, and the yoga person all said to each other in unison. "If she got to the homeless people, she must have been right outside. You find the homeless people, you're here!"
That really should have been in the brochure, I think.
And thus ends my favorite Central Square Cambridge story.
xoxo
There are certain blocks in Central Square which are fine, and some which are seedy, and others which are s.e.e.d.y, okay? Back when I worked for the Evil Massage place, they opened a brand new facility on one of the s.e.e.d.y. blocks. Opening a brand new facility when you are about to go bankrupt and steal all your employees' money and property is probably not a wise business decision, especially in a city that is glutted with massage therapy facilities, but the place was lovely on the inside at least. Well, the elevator was a little sketchy, but otherwise. One Sunday I was working and I had no clients scheduled till the last slot of the day, which meant sitting around for three or four hours, unpaid and frustrated. But at least the promise of making a commission and a tip at the end of the day kept me from being totally homicidal.
Except the woman's appointment time came and went and she didn't show. The receptionist called her to see if she was on her way and got her voicemail. Eventually the client calls back. Apparently she took the T into Central Square, came above ground and could not find the address. According to her, she was wandering about and there were homeless people everywhere, and she got freaked. So she turned around and went home.
"OH MY GOD," I, the receptionist, and the yoga person all said to each other in unison. "If she got to the homeless people, she must have been right outside. You find the homeless people, you're here!"
That really should have been in the brochure, I think.
And thus ends my favorite Central Square Cambridge story.
xoxo
Sunday, October 4, 2009
not all conversations happen on the prison bus
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Saturday, October 3, 2009
now i've got something to say
It's probably gonna be disjointed and make very little sense. I'm okay with that.
I read in the last couple days, in a couple different internet venues, a couple different people evincing shame about the fact that their homes weren't nicer. Maybe the context isn't that important, but one of them, for example, was a college professor married to a grad student (or maybe vice versa, I don't remember) who attended a social occasion at another faculty member's home, and came home and just sobbed because the other woman had a beautiful, spotless, tastefully and impeccably decorated suburban house, while she and her husband lived in a crowded and cluttered *trailer* that needs some work. Sobbed not out of envy, but out of shame, shame that something was seriously wrong with her, that if only she had her act together better somehow, that if only she were somehow a better, more capable person, she too would have the incredibly lovely home her colleague does. Furthermore she was sure (without any complete evidence) that *all* her colleagues had better, prettier, cleaner houses than she does and furthermore, that people almost imperceptibly sneered when they heard her address and thus figured out that she lives in a trailer park.
Okay, we'll get back to what people replied to this obviously depressed woman, but you can see why I'm bringing this up, right? I've been struggling a lot with similar type feelings, as you may have been able to glean, and it's ironic, because three or four years ago, when I was in the midst of massage school and D was really bad, and the whole second floor of my house was such a disaster that for a straight year I wouldn't let anyone up there (not even the Benevolent L who knows and sees all and judges none), I didn't feel this shame about it. As anyone who has been reading since the beginning of this blog knows, I've spent the past two years cleaning and organizing and redecorating and trying to make things better and nicer and prettier, and it's gotten so at this point it's just making me feel worse and more guilty. The more I pay attention to it, the more hopeless it seems. For everything I do, for everything I make better, I see two other things that look correspondingly more shabby, and my progress has been so slow from lack of money and lack of a contractor husband (or anyone else) to help me do the work and from laziness and from incompetance. And when I am depressed, that all spirals into "if you had your shit together like a normal person, Andrea, you'd have money and a husband and you wouldn't be so lazy and incompetant, and therefore you'd have a beautiful house inside and out like so-and-so." Before anyone feels compelled to correct me, I do know that's bullshit. It's just the irrational shame the depression brings.
But here's the other thing. When the Benevolent L was here for my surgery, we were in my little massage room upstairs--not, sadly, to do massage--and she said something along the lines of "this room is so beautiful and peaceful, I love it..." I look at that room and see the ripped up and stained carpeting, and the fact that there are four different paint samples up on the wall and it still hasn't been painted, and the broken closet door, and the Target bags under one of the tables that have floating shelves in them that will go on the walls after I do finally effin' paint, and the cable across the floor (don't ask), and blah blah blah. She looks at that room and sees the pretty curtains and the slipper chair and my beautiful vases and candles and the leather sofa with the pillows and the furry throw and the things that *are* up on the walls and the cozy quilt on the massage table. I see what's wrong and she sees what's right.
And I think of that, and I think that besides the irrationality of "if only I were a better person, I'd have better stuff", the other irrationality of being ashamed of your house not being good enough is that the vast majority of people who enter it aren't going to notice what's "wrong" or judge you if they do. Oh, yeah, some people are assholes. (But do we or should we care about the opinions of assholes, hmm?) But most people are going to notice the things they *like*--your cute and/or comfy sofa or your lovely woodwork or your stunning view or how nicely you've arranged your photos or what an interesting collection of books you have or how good whatever you're cooking smells. Etc. They're not running down some checklist in their head of god, doesn't s/he ever dust? and there's no granite in this kitchen! and those window treatments? noooo, I don't think so and if I had to rip out some drywall, it'd be fixed, patched, and painted the very next day, sniff. Unless they're assholes, in which case, see above.
So, what did people tell the depressed college professor? Oh, they told her about all the many academics they've known who've had, shall we say, less than tidy and organized homes (so that if she thinks all her colleagues have House Beautiful spreads for their living rooms, she's probably wrong) and they told her that there was no shame in owning a trailer she could afford over some huge house mortgaged to the hilt that she can't and that, like I said above, she was almost certainly judging herself far, far more harshly than anyone else ever would.
xoxo
I read in the last couple days, in a couple different internet venues, a couple different people evincing shame about the fact that their homes weren't nicer. Maybe the context isn't that important, but one of them, for example, was a college professor married to a grad student (or maybe vice versa, I don't remember) who attended a social occasion at another faculty member's home, and came home and just sobbed because the other woman had a beautiful, spotless, tastefully and impeccably decorated suburban house, while she and her husband lived in a crowded and cluttered *trailer* that needs some work. Sobbed not out of envy, but out of shame, shame that something was seriously wrong with her, that if only she had her act together better somehow, that if only she were somehow a better, more capable person, she too would have the incredibly lovely home her colleague does. Furthermore she was sure (without any complete evidence) that *all* her colleagues had better, prettier, cleaner houses than she does and furthermore, that people almost imperceptibly sneered when they heard her address and thus figured out that she lives in a trailer park.
Okay, we'll get back to what people replied to this obviously depressed woman, but you can see why I'm bringing this up, right? I've been struggling a lot with similar type feelings, as you may have been able to glean, and it's ironic, because three or four years ago, when I was in the midst of massage school and D was really bad, and the whole second floor of my house was such a disaster that for a straight year I wouldn't let anyone up there (not even the Benevolent L who knows and sees all and judges none), I didn't feel this shame about it. As anyone who has been reading since the beginning of this blog knows, I've spent the past two years cleaning and organizing and redecorating and trying to make things better and nicer and prettier, and it's gotten so at this point it's just making me feel worse and more guilty. The more I pay attention to it, the more hopeless it seems. For everything I do, for everything I make better, I see two other things that look correspondingly more shabby, and my progress has been so slow from lack of money and lack of a contractor husband (or anyone else) to help me do the work and from laziness and from incompetance. And when I am depressed, that all spirals into "if you had your shit together like a normal person, Andrea, you'd have money and a husband and you wouldn't be so lazy and incompetant, and therefore you'd have a beautiful house inside and out like so-and-so." Before anyone feels compelled to correct me, I do know that's bullshit. It's just the irrational shame the depression brings.
But here's the other thing. When the Benevolent L was here for my surgery, we were in my little massage room upstairs--not, sadly, to do massage--and she said something along the lines of "this room is so beautiful and peaceful, I love it..." I look at that room and see the ripped up and stained carpeting, and the fact that there are four different paint samples up on the wall and it still hasn't been painted, and the broken closet door, and the Target bags under one of the tables that have floating shelves in them that will go on the walls after I do finally effin' paint, and the cable across the floor (don't ask), and blah blah blah. She looks at that room and sees the pretty curtains and the slipper chair and my beautiful vases and candles and the leather sofa with the pillows and the furry throw and the things that *are* up on the walls and the cozy quilt on the massage table. I see what's wrong and she sees what's right.
And I think of that, and I think that besides the irrationality of "if only I were a better person, I'd have better stuff", the other irrationality of being ashamed of your house not being good enough is that the vast majority of people who enter it aren't going to notice what's "wrong" or judge you if they do. Oh, yeah, some people are assholes. (But do we or should we care about the opinions of assholes, hmm?) But most people are going to notice the things they *like*--your cute and/or comfy sofa or your lovely woodwork or your stunning view or how nicely you've arranged your photos or what an interesting collection of books you have or how good whatever you're cooking smells. Etc. They're not running down some checklist in their head of god, doesn't s/he ever dust? and there's no granite in this kitchen! and those window treatments? noooo, I don't think so and if I had to rip out some drywall, it'd be fixed, patched, and painted the very next day, sniff. Unless they're assholes, in which case, see above.
So, what did people tell the depressed college professor? Oh, they told her about all the many academics they've known who've had, shall we say, less than tidy and organized homes (so that if she thinks all her colleagues have House Beautiful spreads for their living rooms, she's probably wrong) and they told her that there was no shame in owning a trailer she could afford over some huge house mortgaged to the hilt that she can't and that, like I said above, she was almost certainly judging herself far, far more harshly than anyone else ever would.
xoxo
oh, chickens
I wish I had a good excuse about why I haven't been blogging, but frankly I just haven't had anything to say. I do have a bunch of reviews I could do, considering I spent a lot of my recuperative time the end of last week watching DVDs, but eh. Can't be bothered. I will say, I had never previously seen Anne Hathaway in anything but that "the devil wears Prada" movie, and to my surprise, she can kind of act. Who knew?
The Red Sox have been boring as hell. In fact, during one of the games this week, Jerry spontaneously said to Don something along the lines of, "So, what have you been up to? Anything new? This game is really boring." I feel ya, man. The playoffs probably won't be boring, but rather, nasty, brutish, and short. Or however the hell that quote goes. But I guess they could surprise me.
And here's how deeply the crazee has been upon me. There's this course I've wanted to take ever since (or even before) I graduated massage school, but I have never felt I've had the money to do it. But I've been thinking about it again. Now, there's more than one organization that teaches it, but basically, it's between $500 and $600 no matter what route you go. And since I haven't seen it offered really locally, there'd be travel and hotel expenses too. Add to that the fact that though my thought is, "oh, I could probably make some money doing that", the reality is, boy and girls, that I am never going to make any money that involves me selling and promoting myself. I am whatever the opposite of business-minded is.
So here's where the crazee comes in. I just gave you a whole long paragraph about why doing this course would be ill-advised, right? Well, you want to know the *real* reason I ruled out taking it in NYC at the end of November? I've heard too many stories lately about how even the nice hotels in NYC have been having a bedbug problem, and I know, I know, that the way my anxiety is right now, I would spend my entire trip convinced I had them, and then come home to obsessively scratch whilst washing, bleaching, and fumigating everything I own in a panic. And that panic would last weeks. I'd probably psychosomatically break out in a rash too.
So I guess my abnormal brain chemistry is good for something: saving me a thousand bucks I would never recoup no matter what I tell myself.
xoxo
The Red Sox have been boring as hell. In fact, during one of the games this week, Jerry spontaneously said to Don something along the lines of, "So, what have you been up to? Anything new? This game is really boring." I feel ya, man. The playoffs probably won't be boring, but rather, nasty, brutish, and short. Or however the hell that quote goes. But I guess they could surprise me.
And here's how deeply the crazee has been upon me. There's this course I've wanted to take ever since (or even before) I graduated massage school, but I have never felt I've had the money to do it. But I've been thinking about it again. Now, there's more than one organization that teaches it, but basically, it's between $500 and $600 no matter what route you go. And since I haven't seen it offered really locally, there'd be travel and hotel expenses too. Add to that the fact that though my thought is, "oh, I could probably make some money doing that", the reality is, boy and girls, that I am never going to make any money that involves me selling and promoting myself. I am whatever the opposite of business-minded is.
So here's where the crazee comes in. I just gave you a whole long paragraph about why doing this course would be ill-advised, right? Well, you want to know the *real* reason I ruled out taking it in NYC at the end of November? I've heard too many stories lately about how even the nice hotels in NYC have been having a bedbug problem, and I know, I know, that the way my anxiety is right now, I would spend my entire trip convinced I had them, and then come home to obsessively scratch whilst washing, bleaching, and fumigating everything I own in a panic. And that panic would last weeks. I'd probably psychosomatically break out in a rash too.
So I guess my abnormal brain chemistry is good for something: saving me a thousand bucks I would never recoup no matter what I tell myself.
xoxo
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